Of Baited Breath and Furry Sheepdogs...

I've logged in several times.  Wanting to express myself.  Wanting to share.

But being...paralyzed.

Unable to utter the words I want to hear.  Unable to wonder in front of everyone else.

Is it really happening?

Is it possible?

I am now in my 35th week of pregnancy.  Buttercup is still alive.  She moves about in comforting regularity.  I don't have heartburn.  I'm not nauseous.  I don't feel overly tired.  I'm still walking daily.  I'm still writing.  I'm still...being.

I've noticed that I seem to need Ferdinand close by even more than usual.  His comforting presence calms the nerves which feel raw and tender.  As if he can chase away the worry...the pain of fear.

He watches me constantly.  He even wakes me at night...as if he is concerned and wants to make sure I'm o.k..

It might annoy someone else, but honestly, it feels really good to be so nurtured and cared about.

My husband laughs that my beloved furry friend is neurotic.

I prefer to think of him as protective.


Everything is fine.  Better than fine.  No signs of trouble.  No reason to worry.
I've a bounty of friends, sending me encouragement in the form of beads, and girly beauty in all forms.  I've never had so much support in my life.  Everything points to a positive outcome.  I'm trying to be brave.

I'm trying.

As these summer days linger slowly... I am reminded of the necessity of breath.  It's not a unique need...to breathe.  We all need to do it, though it may be harder for some of us than others.

It appears that my little girl is really coming.  It appears that she is safe.

And in the meantime, while I am forced to assume the best possible outcome...I must breathe.
breathe.
breathe.

Forced optimism?

I woke up this morning feeling that one shouldn't have to "TRY" to feel better.  One shouldn't have to make an "EFFORT" to feel joy.  One shouldn't have to "CONVINCE" oneself that everything will be o.k..  A person should not have to "FORCE" optimism.

And yet...that's who I am.

I'm not someone who typically used to be a whiner.  A complainer.  A worry wart.

And yet...when I look in the mirror lately...that is the woman I've become.  Someone who tries to blink away tears when a smiling person says "How's it going?" or "How are you today?"  I've become someone who knows that each corner may have something lurking.  Something I don't want to encounter.  I complain.  I whine.  I worry.  And mostly....I panic.

It doesn't take much to rock my boat any more, and that feels strange and somehow...off kilter.

I consider myself a pretty resilient person when I look at my resume of life.  I survived abuse, neglect, all around poor parenting, sexual violation, and an icky, sad childhood and I was still a pretty sweet, happy kid.  I survived being a teen mom with all the nasties and judgements that go along with that and I was still a really great and attentive mama. I've lived through parenting a child with undiagnosed bi-polar disorder and I can't say that my parenting skills were lacking even without knowing what I was dealing with.  My son felt loved and nurtured through it all.  He still does.  I've had to let my parents, who suffer with untreated mental health issues, go their own ways in order to stop the hurts they inflict, even though letting them go has been like a ripping apart of my heart.  I've gone through bumps in my beautiful marriage, and bruises in my personal life. I've risen through places no parent wants to encounter as a child hung near deaths door.  I've lived through several miscarriages....I've lived through stillbirths...and my own death.   Twice.

And now, I am here.

Standing here.  A writer.  A mother.  A wife.  A competent healer and educator.  A friend. 

And, I feel weak.

Worried.

As if I've never had a child before.  As if I have no idea what to do.  As if I am in a freeze frame of fear that I can't move away from.

I feel lost.

I look at the items I've collected.  Just a few sweet things...for my little girl.
I know I need to gather more.  I know I'm totally deficient in the baby supply category.

But...I'm so afraid to ask for more.  And really, who would I ask?

Who is going to take care of me?

Of us?

And why?  Why is it that after a lifetime of being totally independent...resilient...in control...

that I feel lost.  Alone.  And...mostly...sad.  Why do I even want anyone else to take care of me when I've spent most of the past 37 years taking care of myself and others?

My little girl is coming.  She has beautiful older brothers and the best daddy in the world to greet her with smiles.  She's on the wings of our twins and I have to believe that she WILL be here.


I see the tears in my husbands eyes.  I see the stress on his shoulders.  I grab them, and try to rub away the mounting tension that I know is related to the worry that is plaguing him too.

The worry, caused by all the what if's.  The worry, caused by the absence of elders who seem to know anything about anything.

I look in the mirror, and I see silver strands, and I realize that there are no elders.  Not for me.  I am the elder.  I look at my husband, who yearns for a father to tell him what to do...how to stay strong...and there is no one...just the image of a sweet balding man with beautiful blue eyes and emotional pain etched in the lines emerging on his forehead.  He is the elder.  There isn't anyone else to lean on...to learn from...to ask questions of.  We are the elders we are seeking...and it is a crushing blow to realize that there is no one else.  For either of us.

I'm lost, just like the people who were supposed to love me when I was born and all the way to the now where I stand.  I'm lost, just like the adults who were supposed to know the way and point it out to me so that I wouldn't stumble.  I'm afraid, just like the grown ups before me were afraid.

But...there is a difference.  You see....I'm a fighter.  I'm going to keep on trying.  I'm not going to give up.

I'm worried.  Afraid.  Alone.  Unguided.

And if my past has anything at all to do with my future....I will make it, and when I do, you can be sure that my children won't feel so alone.  I'll be there.  I'll be whispering support and showing affection.  I'll be pointing the way with a smile.  I'll be offering a hand.

The road will be open, because I am currently working my ass off to clear the jungle ahead of us away in the hopes that when I look back over my shoulder, what I will see is the freedom I want for my children that comes with the ability to move forward unencumbered, but supported. 

Sweet baby girl...as you swim around in the sea of hormones that your terrified mama can't seem to curb...know that all of that worry is because she loves you more than she could ever express, and please...don't be afraid.  I promise to love you forever...and to care for you always.

Storm Clouds

Spring is still somewhat elusive in the pacific northwest mountain city where I live.  Oh yes, there are flowers, and gardens have been carefully, if hesitantly, planted...but, still the sky remains an ever present threat of stormy weather.  The river that runs through "it" is nearing peak capacity as the watchful residents who opted to prop their lovely homes on river front property look warily at its continuous rising levels.  We had more snow this year than in the past 80 years apparently.  More rain too.

The storm clouds drawn in on the 10 day weather forecast indicate lightening storm warnings and the risk of flooding.

I live on a mountain over-looking the valley below.  I live on a mountain that was once lake front property of the bowl that was once, very long ago, filled with clear blue water and probably a few prehistoric critters.  I live on a mountain in a home not threatened by the rising waters and the fear of flooding.

It's not something I need to worry about.

It's not my problem.

It's not my personal story.

And yet...

These people, who look at the rushing, roaring river, with wide eyes and whispers about what to do in a flood...these people are my neighbors.  My brothers and sisters in this world.  Their losses are my losses.

I know this because that is what has happened within the baby loss community.  Their stories are my stories.  Their losses are my losses.  Their tears are my tears...and if they are lucky, truly lucky, their rainbows are mine as well.  Messages of what might be...what could be--if I'm truly lucky...this time.

I have moved into my 7th month.  The third trimester.  The final stages.  My baby girl's rainbow potential looks brighter and brighter each passing day.  Her kicks are stronger.  Her vitality clear.

My story alone would indicate that I have little to fear at this point.

But, my story isn't the only story.

Babies die.

I keep telling myself that after the first trimester, most babies are born.  Born alive.  I keep telling myself that my risk of loss, now past the 2nd trimester, has gone dramatically down.  I keep telling myself that I should be careful about what I pray for, for I am told again and again that little girls are harder than boys. I'm told the teen years will be murder.  I have trouble believing that...my boys aren't "normal"...so why should my girl be a typical "normal" drama queen? But, I'm told to hold my breath...

But being told stories that indicate that I should fear having a little girl is futile.  I'm in love with her.  I imagine holding her hand, brushing her hair, teaching her about what it is to be a woman...and that it what breaks me. I want her so much...and I know the stories.  I know the stories of losing a baby, a healthy, beautiful baby in the last few weeks.  In the last hours of pushing.  Even in the first month or two...or three...or the first year of life.  I know the stories.

And I am afraid they will become my story as well.

I cannot go back into the world of the unknowing.  I cannot be the mother who once, with a bright smile of confidence BELIEVED that her babies would be born safely.  I cannot pretend I do not know what has happened to my sisters in this life, or pretend that it hasn't already happened to me before.

When we lost our twins, I was told by many that "it could have been worse."

Yes.  It could have been.  It still could be.

I watch the bursting river, tip top to the edge of borders that will not hold back much more...and I know it could get worse.  That it probably will get worse.  I fear for my neighbors down in the basin of this mountain town where a lake once thrived.

And I'm reminded of our vulnerability.

I look at the storm clouds and I beg them to pass.  To show us all rainbows and to hold back the storms.  Another storm will mount the flood potential.  Another loss would destroy my core.

We need rainbows.  Rainbows.  Of all kinds.  In all forms.  And especially in the form of a beautiful baby girl who is, at the moment, known as my buttercup. 

We, collectively, need the storms to pass.

Butter colored beads...

 

Butter colored beads.  

But not just any bead.  Not really.  They are Baltic amber beads.  High in succinct acid...or something like that.  They apparently reduce inflammation for all kinds of things.  Including teething.  

I recently bought a strand.  

It arrived in the mail yesterday.  A tiny little necklace, for a tiny little girl.  Each bead carefully knotted in between, to prevent the risk of choking on a stray bead should it break.  Each bead, a beautiful butter yellow.  High in succinct acid...rich in the color of a buttercup.  

I felt my heart breaking as it lay in my hand.  

The yearning to know.  To really know...that we won't lose her too.  

The crushing desire to be sure that I will get to screw the clasp around her beautiful little neck, complete with a small pulse to indicate life.  

The debilitating fear that comes with knowing what it feels like to hold a child with no life in it, and to know we are never immune to that cold reality.  

The panic that emerges when you realize, fully, just how much you love this little person you have never seen.  To know how deeply you need the smell of your newborn, the sound of her breath, the feel of her skin, warm against your own.  

Butter colored beads.  They look like pretty yellow beads to anyone else.  

They are draped over a picture of four of my sons in the yogic "tree pose" that sits on the upright piano in my living room.  It's a pose that symbolizes ultimate balance and inner peace, which is something I'm yearning for.  I draped "her" necklace over the picture in a prayerful gesture that begged the universe to allow her to join her living brothers in this world...to bring us all peace and balance once more.  I whispered her name.  The name we've chosen.  The name the universe whispered into my husbands ear.  The name that has meanings in several languages.  Truth.  Noble one.  Protected by God.  Her name.  I whispered it to myself.  

When my husband declared joyfully that he wanted to shout it out to the world.  Her name.  I irrationally felt my chest grip with fear as I glanced over at the butter colored amber.  

And the tears erupted. 

Crushing his joy. 

Making him think I was still in doubt about her name.

Which I am not. 

Butter colored beads.   The healing force that Amber promises strung into a tiny necklace destined for a buttercup princess growing where twins died.  Growing.  Alive.  Moving.  Alive.  Thriving.  Alive.

I can only whisper her name.  I can only imagine how lovely she will be.   

I want to embrace that boundless joy my husband had..before I crushed it with fear.  I want to give it back to him with the promise that I will deliver his lovely daughter alive into his arms.  

But I can only whisper her name.  

Introspections...

Sometimes, or if I'm really honest, A lot of the time....life is confusing.

Emotions are confusing.

Happenings IN life...are confusing.

Like losing a child.  It doesn't really make sense to my heart. 

And yet, it happens.  All the time.  Every day.  Every minute.  Every second. 

Loss.

But not to everyone.  And not to most babies.

Most babies that make it past the first trimester are born. 

They really are.

I keep telling myself this as I feel my growing daughter moving inside of me.  (finally, I can feel her!)

I tell myself that she will be born.  That she will make it.

But I feel a twinge of fear whenever I see another pregnant woman.  I hear my thoughts..."Will her baby make it?  Oh please...let her baby make it to life."   I don't know who I'm begging.  I don't know why I keep talking to the air as if it can hear me.  I don't know why I have the compulsion to ask for miracles...for it really IS a miracle...life.  All of it.

And yet, there it is.  Asking.  Praying.  Begging. 

For life to work.  To emerge. 

My 7 year old asked me who God was the other day.   I know lots of people have ideas about this.  Whole religions even.   But I had to be honest.  I told him I didn't think God was a who.  I told him that I felt that God was a reality.  A wholeness. An everything.  I took him outside and we watched the trees in the wind, fruit blossoms with all their wondrous color and honey bees dipping happily into the nectar they possess.  I squeezed his hand and said, "Baby bear....this is all God.  All of it.  God's not a who.  God's an everything. God is within and without and intertwined and beyond anything anyone can ever understand.  God is reality. God is all of what you see, and even more than you can comprehend." 

He smiled and said "I thought so!" 

Then, for the first time in this pregnancy, he kissed my belly. 

I felt the tears well up in my eyes, because this little boy-child has been looking sideways at my belly ever since we told our sons we would be having another baby.  Looking at me with concern.  Worry that should never be seen in a small boys eyes.  I've been watching him watching me. 

But...somehow, with the idea that God was more than an almighty BEING...he felt safe again.  Safe to wonder about the world.  Safe to love a little growing girl nested in his mothers womb.  Safe from a God that mimicked the unfairness of the Greek Zeus. 

No, the comfort came from God being everything.  Everywhere.  In that, he could find enough peace to love his baby sister.  In that...he left his fear behind. 

God is real. 

It's just not an it.  Not a he.  Not a she.  Not an identity. 

God is Reality. 
And as my sweet husband wrote in his beautiful book, Being Ourself
God...is Ourself. 

The road less traveled by...

We celebrated Easter this weekend. 

Something felt like it was missing.

The sky was a brilliant blue, and the warmth of the sun was gratefully received as we trekked through the mountains playing Frisbee golf with four little boys...who aren't so little any more.   The Frisbee's were found in morning Easter Baskets with smiles of joy.  Four little baskets...and a fifth one...for our buttercup. 

I am the mother of five living sons.  I am the mother of twins...who are not.  I am the mother of a daughter...who I hope upon hope will be.  Four baskets...and a fifth.  The fifth contained a little white duck-platypus with a pink bow...a platy-puck.  Just like the purple and yellow one we bought two years ago...before.  Before.  It sat next to a tiny chocolate bunny.  The same kind as the white chocolate one we bought two years ago....before.  Before.    The basket was small.  Feminine.  It had a label..."To Princess Buttercup" 

I got out my memory box this morning.  I've been doing that a lot lately.  Tiny little hands and little feet captured in clay....perfect.  The same size as my daughter must be right now.   I read the little label from the Easter basket given...before.  Before.  "To our Sweet Baby Boy"  The white chocolate bunny looks exactly the same.  Amazing how long candy can last.  Preserved. 

Four baskets for my sons.  My eldest son was not expected.  His bi polar mania has stolen him again.  He isn't speaking to us.  Alienation. 

Manic energy and paranoia tells him that we are against him.  It tells him he is alone. That we are not to be trusted with his heart.  It warns him against the family that has loved him from the beginning and will love him till the end.  A missing Easter basket reminded me...that he was gone too.  Just like Simon and Alexander.  By choice. 

We trekked through the mountains, in awe of a bald eagle and an abundance of blue birds, hawks, and robins.  We felt the glow of sweat on our brows as we munched the innards of carefully painted eggs that once boasted the artistic endeavors of a family determined to live life to the fullest.  Bunnies, flowers, butterflies, dots, spirals, wavy lines...and even a lion.  The most beautiful eggs I've ever seen on an Easter day.   The colored shells littered the path behind us...to turn into the earthy soil of the wooded trail.  An egg I was holding was purple.  A beautiful purple.  With three yellow buttercups painted by the attentive hand of a sensitive boy-child...who remembers.  I put it back in my pocket.  I couldn't break it open.

This morning, I went to look for that egg, to take a picture of it.  But it was gone.  Someone must have eaten it.  I could see the fragments in the garbage.  Purple and yellow egg shells in little pieces.  Gone.  Like my twins.  Next to the purple and yellow were also fragments of a bright red egg...bright red...like the heated passion of bi-polar anger.  I dug up the fragments...separating them from freshly ground coffee remains and a crust of bread.  I carried them outside, and buried them in my garden.  Under the leaves of some buttercups that were emerging.  I sat there awhile, and while I sat, I felt the tears in my eyes as a butterfly landed on the spot of color those tiny buttercups offered. 

This road...the road of walking forward amist different forms of loss....

It is marked by tears and a love as bright as the colors of a rainbow...or an Easter egg. 

2 years ago...

Earth Day.  

This was the day.  The day you were born.  The day I died.  For the first time.  This was the day.

Your daddy thanked me today for giving you both to him.   He asked me to remember what a gift you are to us all.

I cried because I have so much pain about giving him dead babies.

I cried because I wish you were here with all my heart.  Two two year olds....two two year olds. 

I cried because I love our little buttercup rainbow baby whom I feel you protecting. 

And I'm afraid. Afraid I will lose her too.

Two years ago...

You were born.  And taken away. 

I never wanted to let you go. 

I still don't.

Happy birthday my sweet babies. 

Mommy misses you.

Oh how I miss you. I miss simply the dream of who you both might have been.  I miss you.

Mental Blooper and the Resulting Panic!

As many of you know, I am a completely anxious wreck. Not only am I doppler crazy and constantly worried that my baby girl is dead, I'm also hyper-vigilant. This morning, I was really tired after a ridiculous night of waking up crying out "HELP!" for no reason what so ever and then going upstairs around 3 A.M. to use the doppler (again) to just check on her heart beat...which I couldn't find for 15 minutes (PANIC) ...and then falling asleep with the doppler ON while listening to her so long that the battery wore out only to wake up to find a thin CRUSTY goo on my belly where the gel had solidified....I went to the bathroom to take a shower, and of course...to pee.

As is my usual paranoid routine, I sleepily glanced at the toilet paper...just to make sure.

And it was bright pink.

I FREAKED out! Totally freeked. Jumped up from the toilet, and gasped at the bright fushia water. Oh god...I LOST it. Totally started sobbing.

And then....I remembered. And I felt like a total idiot.

I made BORSCHT for dinner last night.

For those of you who don't know...borscht is a soup made primarily of BEETS, which will turn your pee and otherwise "refuse material" to all manner of pink and red!

So...nothing wrong. Except that I'm completely batty.

Oh...and my husband and I will be eating Borscht all week, because my kids thought it looked like a blood bath and refused to eat it, once one of them SAID it looked like blood, it was all over for the rest of them. It was amazingly good. For any of you who would like the recipe:

Butterfly Borscht:

3 large beets, chopped coarsely. (by hand or food processor...do not over process...you want small chunks.)
3 large carrots and leftover beet greens, pureed in 1 cup water.
1 large yellow onion, sauteed in olive oil till golden brown and slightly crispy brown on edges. (caramelize)
4-5 cups vegetable broth
sea salt and pepper to taste
4- 6 tablespoon balsamic vinegar (depending on personal preference)
1 small red cabbage, finely sliced into strips. (reserve)

Add beets, pureed greens and carrots, caramelized onions, veggi broth and sea salt/pepper to large pot and bring to a mild boil. Reduce immediately to a simmer. Cook while stirring occasionally for 15 minutes. Use a potato masher to correct any larger beet chunks a food processor might had missed. Don't over mash. Add the reserved shredded cabbage and balsamic vinegar and continue cooking till cabbage is soft, about 15 minutes. Add another cup of broth or water as desired for consistency. Serve with a dollop of organic sour cream and a sprinkle of green onion and a crusty loaf.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Just be forewarned. There will be evidence for DAYS...so don't freak out like I did.

April...

April.

It's April again.  Soon, I'll be confronting the two year anniversary since my world was turned upside down...never to be the same. 

My baby girl is nestled within.  Hopefully safe.  Hopefully alive.  I never really know.  I can barely feel her on rare and wonderful occasions.  Anterior placenta....it shields her movements.  A perfectly awful joke to a mom who is already anxious.  An Anterior placenta.  I can only know she is o.k. with a doppler.  A completely paradoxical joke for a mom who has always been hesitant to use ultrasound during pregnancy.  I can't know she is o.k. without it.  I can't really feel her and I can't hear her without technology. 

I really wish that wasn't the case.

I woke up this morning grabbing my belly, and wondered if it was too soft.  Wondered if maybe she was dead.  I didn't voice my feelings to my husband.  But...he was blue anyway.  Just randomly blue.  We've all had the flu, so, he's still getting over it.  We all are.  But unlike the rest of us sickies, he still had to trek off to work.  He missed 4 days already...4 days of lost pay.  Half of one of his paychecks.  He had to go. 

I reminded him that it was April.  I saw the tears well in his eyes for a moment.  And he nodded.

It's been two years.  People have been greeting our pregnancy with joy.  Some, because they know how much we want this baby.  Some, because they know they were completely unsupportive LAST time, and they feel like jerks.  Some...because we are finally having a girl.  Some....because of all three reasons.  And some...because they have also lost babies.  And they understand.  They get it. 

The latter group...they also know that it's not so simple as being pregnant.  They know it's not so simple as even having a healthy baby.  The loss...it ripples into life.  It becomes part of the landscape. 

I think I foolishly thought that being pregnant again would simply be joyful.

I AM joyful.  But...I'm also, unexpectedly, terrified.

I'm terrified of loss.  I'm terrified.

When I see my husband's tears, I beg the universe to spare him from more loss. 
When I watch my children tentatively glance at my blossoming belly, I remember how joyfully they embraced it the last time..when we were to have twins.....and I pray that they will never know loss again.
When I feel a sudden doubt, or fear...or, lets be honest...a total engulfment of terror...I know that we can't take it again.  That I can't take it again.

I need my little girl to be healthy.  To be whole.  To be....alive.

It is April.  The month that began our season of loss.  For it wasn't just a day.  It was a season.  An entire season of death. 

I can't wait for the end of summer. 

I wish I had a fast forward button. 

Some people....sheesh!

A bowel obstruction. 

That's what we are told my mother in law has.  She's in ICU...in a haze of foggy morphine induced stupor after a successful surgery for...a bowel obstruction.  She's developed an infection, and that's not so good, though the surgery went well.  She won't have a colostomy bag....and that is good news.  She's recovering...and that's good too. 

However...she happens to be in a relationship with a man that is, for lack of more appropriate words, crazy.  Oh yes...he's from the same "background", which makes him acceptable to her...but, the guy is certifiable.  Literally.  He's bi-polar, and has brain damage.  He may come from the country club arena she is so committed to, but...he's a homeless ex-hippie guy.   So why does this matter to me at all?  In general, it's none of my beezwax. I could care less. I don't have to deal with him, and if she likes her homeless boyfriend who lives off trust funds and friends in between bouts of irritable mania...more power to her.  But, it matters to me when he calls my home and starts trashing my husband because he can't just pick up and leave to take care of his mother (who is going to be fine.).  This homeless crazy guy seems to think that my husband, who spends his days counseling the poor, the abused, the sexually violated and the mentally ill, and then comes home to nurture and care for four little boys and his pregnant wife, is somehow...negligent in his duties because he doesn't say "screw it all!  I have to leave my life and take care of my mom....to hell with the fact that I have a mortgage to pay and children to feed." 

Now, in a more comfortable world, my husband would have unlimited paid vacation time...like a homeless guy who has a cozy trust fund...but, he doesn't, and we don't, and it isn't AND, his mother isn't dying.  She simply had bowel surgery for an obstruction.

I don't like it when mentally ill a**wipes interfere with my families hard fought for harmony.  We struggle every day to maintain peace and joy in a world that seems very unstable.  We grope for calm as we endure pregnancy while knowing that it could end any day...that we could lose our little girl, for no reason.  We strive for love as we watch the world fight and kill our earthly brothers and sisters.  We pray for hope as we deal with an eldest son who ALSO struggles with mental illness and brain injury. 

We don't need this.  We don't have the energy for it.  And yet...it is like a relentless waterfall of drama.

My 12 year old broke his wrist.  I spent all afternoon in a clinic to find that out.  Tomorrow we get to spend all day getting it in a cast.  I spent the morning sobbing in my midwifes office about my anxiety and stress levels and fears.  She loaned me a doppler so I can hear my ever elusive baby's heartbeat while she hides sweetly behind an anterior placenta that prevents me from being able to feel her.  My husband spent his day caring for his clients and listening to their pain, trying to find ways to help and comfort the broken hearts placed before him.  I spent the evening driving kids to Aikido and band practice and then, I made an amazing Thai meal of bison panang.   All this BEFORE the phone call that stole my evening with my husband away with the transformation of chaos into the attempted peace we were striving for in spite of a crazy day. 

This man, my mother in law's boyfriend, friend...whatever he is......he had the gall to tell my husband that he is a failure because the book he wrote that was published and released in the same week that our twins DIED...has not done better.  He mocked it and spit on the love that carefully tended to each and every word.  It didn't do better because we had nothing to give in the way of promotion as we dealt with broken hearts and shattered dreams.  The book is wonderful.  The timing sucked.  I still believe in that book, by the way.  It's beautiful.  I pray that one day, someone will read it and give it to someone else, who will give it to someone else, who will give it to someone else......etc.  It's worth reading. 

It broke my husbands heart to be so trashed about something so precious to him.  His book.  Losing his babies.  But to be seen as "a failure" in the eyes of a man who has done little more than pamper his own whims...well that was enraging. 

Mental illness.  Personality disorders.  Brain injury.  Abuse.  Trauma.  Selfishness.

WHY? 

My husband took my hand after that phone call and said..."Sara, I know we wanted to spend time together, but I don't want to rage all night...I need to play the drums.  I need to go out and hit something I'm allowed to hit.  I need to play the drums." 

And...I understood...and kissed him goodbye. 

My husband doesn't drink his pain away.  He ROCKS it away.  With rhythm and soul.  With passion and heart.  Tonight, people will dance to his impromptu beat, and he will come home in the wee hours of morning, exhausted...and cleansed.   I know he knows how to heal...he knows what he needs....and when I go outside later on to throw a ball for my sweet Fur-friend...I will ask the stars to keep him safe in the night.  To bring him home to me.  Safely.  Healed.

I'll also be sending healing thoughts to my mother in law.  A woman whose bowel obstruction ironically mimics her interpersonal constipation.  I don't say that to be mean...I just notice it.  I'll be sending prayers for clarity to her manic boyfriend...may he see the truth and stop abusing people in an effort to control others while trying to evade a need for control in his own life.  I'll be sending hope to my eldest son...may he remember how much he is loved and stop pushing away the source of that love.  I'll be sending warmth to my sleeping boys, may they always be the best of friends...and to their little sister...in the hopes that she will grace our home with her laughter and joy...and to my twins...who I will love forever.  Sending peace to the world....may we all remember we are not separate.  May we all remember we are star-dust.  Together.

A review for "Time 4 Learning"...Thumbs UP!

Hello everyone...

With a little less serious topic today, I am pleased to be reviewing an online program for home-school kids as well as kids who may enjoy a little extra tutoring in one subject or another.  At www.Time4learning.com, I have discovered a home-schooling mom's best helper ever!  As many of you know, I'm someone who does NOT enjoy math.  In any form.  I'm adept in most other subjects, but, math is my nemesis.  However, my kids do not share my wanton disability in the area of numbers.  They even LIKE them.  Thus, in home-school, I am a bit challenged to not pass on my dislike for a subject that I genuinely want them to like, be able to do...and enjoy.  I have found that no matter how much I may not like numbers, they are one of the major hoops life requires one to jump through...and I don't want my kiddos to suffer as I have.

So, I started looking.  And looking.  We've bought workbooks, paid tutors, and had my husband who is a full time plus therapist, an artist, an author and a musician, teach them the skill he is more adept at.  All of that was helpful, and with the love of numbers in the forefront, they have been thriving....

And then, my youngest decided reading wasn't fun.  Oh yes, we read, but...not with enthusiasm.  This was new to me.  We are readers.  But, this little guy seemed to think in some part of his mind that reading was something "everyone else" could do better.  This is because he sees his teen brothers reading Shakespere, The Most Dangerous Game and Whitman.  He sees his other brothers reading Harry Potter, Redwall and a miriad of other fun books...and he has to wait if he wants anyone to read something more complicated to him. And, I think part of him believed that maybe, he would never really be as good as his brothers were...at everything.

With love and concern in my heart, wishing to find something more engaging for my little Bear, I stumbled across an amazing site called "Time4Learning".  I was a bit dubious at first.  My experience with on line tutorials has not been anything noteworthy.  But, Time4Learning was different.  Fun graphics, cool games, and ALL of them really informative, helpful and educational in a way that isn't "cheatable".  You parents know what I'm talking about when I say "cheatable".  You go to the store, you buy a computer "game" that is supposed to teach your kids something...and then, you discover that it is more fun for your kids to outwit the computer than to actually learn, and the game lets them do this, because it really isn't a learning tool...it's a game.  In reality, the only thing being outwitted is the parent who spent his or her money on the stupid "tutorial".    With Time4Learning, I found my children working out problems...as it was the only way to really solve them!  I found my little Bear really sounding things out, instead of just memorizing.  He was engaged and happy.  He was LEARNING...and he was having a great time doing it.

That is the most impressive part for me...because my children have a Wii, a Playstation, an I-pod touch and...a life!  They have very engaging media enticing them every day...media which I have to deny them as often as a good parent should.  But, instead of asking if they could play the Wii, Playstation or I-pod touch...they were asking if they could do MORE homework on the computer with Time4Learning!!!

This mama is pleased.

However, all the glowing aside, there are a few minor things to consider as well.  I wouldn't call them down sides, but rather, just considerations any parent will have to look at.  There is the cost.  
The monthly membership is $19.95 for the first child and $14.95 for each additional child, with nothing else to buy.  


The monthly membership is really affordable all in all, but, for a large family like mine, it is a dent in our income that I wouldn't be willing to do unless I felt it was REALLY worth it (and...it is for us!!)  Each child has his own account and grade level which he is working with.  With an abundance of math, algebra, reading, spelling, science, social studies and MORE, including over 1000 interactive games and a self paced flow, it's a great buy for any parent of a pre-K to 8th grader.  

The only thing my children complained about was that they can not seem to save work in the middle of a lesson, so if I (as a freelance writer) NEED the computer right away, they will lose what they are working on...and if it's a harder subject, that is a problem for them to have to start over again.  With workbooks, you can stop on any problem or page, and you don't loose your work.  We've started having them enter answers on a piece of paper in order to allow them to just enter them at the end, thus avoiding some frustration.  And, if I'm thinking straight *not always possible*  I will just "switch users" and they can get back to it a little later in the day.  

All in all, I highly recommend Time4Learning to any parent wishing for a little help with their kids educational enthusiasm and ability.  I can look back on what my kiddos are doing in the handy chart area for parents which gives scores for lessons and tells me which areas they need help in, as well as which ones they are thriving in.  I have seen math fluency go up in just one month, spelling has improved, reading has blossomed into something that is enjoyed, and other subjects, such as social studies, language and science are just cake!  My kids are still using their workbooks, but I've noticed more enthusiasm for getting them done so they will have MORE time at Time 4 Learning .  Silly boys...they sure do love learning...especially when it's FUN!!!!  

I think my brain has melted!!!!!!!

Yes.  You heard me right.  My brain has melted. 

It happened yesterday at my midwife appointment. 

I don't know my midwife very well.  I switched to her because my home birth midwife was less than....uh...wonderful...when we lost Simon and Alexander.  She wanted me to "buck up" after only 2 weeks.  That was 3 weeks before we even knew about our twin.  You know...the one that was rotting inside me.  I suppose I could have been more stoic.  Braver.  I could have, I suppose, stuffed my feelings deep inside and took on the song "Don't Cry Out Loud" as my mantra for life at that moment. 

But...I didn't.  I sobbed.  I wailed.  I could barely move.  I was....to be mild about it...devastated.  And that was BEFORE I knew I had had twins. 

She couldn't handle it.  She wanted me to get on with my life...to be grateful for all that I have.  And...in addition, when my husband tried to explain grief to her from a therapist's point of view, she looked at him steadily and said "Ty, I'd like to give you some honest feedback.  You talk too much." 

Wow. 

So...the woman that attended 3 of my five living births and the stillbirth of my twins....will not be attending this baby's birth. 

However...I'm too chicken to have another home birth.  Not because I think it's dangerous.  No...it's because of the fact that I live in a small city.  The midwives are all friends.  There is no way to choose another midwife without hurting my old midwifes feelings deeply.  And though I do NOT want her at another birth....I don't want to hurt her either.  Even if I could "get over" how off I feel she was after our loss, I couldn't ever step foot in her home for a prenatal appointment.  I couldn't ever do that.  Not after....no.  Not after all that went on. 

So, I am planning on a birth center birth.  With a Nurse Midwife.  I like the center well enough.  I am especially keen on the big birthing spa.  I've always wanted a water birth.  But.....Nurse Midwives are a little more...medical...than I am comfortable with.  They do things....by the book. 

The question is:  Who writes the book? 

I expect some differences.  I do.  But...when she told me that if my baby was "too big" as in over 10 pounds that I'd be having a hospital birth....I wanted to scream.  Why?  Because I have had babies that were about 10 pounds...and one who was almost 11.  And....it took about 2-3 pushes to get them out.  No big deal.  I have a wide pelvis.  The practically FALL out once they are in position. 

I told her this.  I told her that it seemed to me that it would make sense to worry about a woman who had an unproven ability to deliver a large baby.  It did NOT make sense to worry about ME having a large baby.  I've done it multiple times.  Easily. 

My husband, ever the supportive man, went off on a tangent about unrealistic expectations in our culture wherein woman are penalized for being fuller even when there is no risk involved.  He loves me.  And my body.  He loves our big healthy babies.  He did not like that she was suggesting a change in my meticulously healthy diet in favor of slowing my weight gain, and creating a smaller baby.  He didn't like it one bit.  He called it Bariatrisism: his word for discrimination of larger people. 

My husband is a very slender, fit, tall, handsome man.  He loves his short, fit, plump wife.  He feels very protective of me.  I felt loved....but also concerned. 

I won't have my baby in the hospital unless it is a real EMERGENCY.  I have not had positive experiences in hospitals.  They are places of death and scary snap second choices.  Places where they do things I have asked them NOT to do...like give me morphine, which I am deathly allergic to.  I have counseled numerous women to birth where they feel safe.  I don't feel safe in hospitals.  At all. 

My options?  Ignore her completely and continue eating healthy foods and hiking every single day, risking that this baby, like my others...will be BIG.   Too big to be allowed in the birth center.  OR....cut out fruit and grains and dairy.....and live on meat and veggies to cut back on my carbs and live like a diabetic even though my sugar testing is perfect.  I am completely healthy in every way.  But...I'm overweight.  I am more active than my skinny friends.  But...I gain about 60 pounds in pregnancy, no matter what I do.  I am completely aware of my dietary intake and it's caloric content.  But...I have large healthy babies.  Babies that I have no problem pushing OUT when it is time.  I have never torn.  ever.  It's really not a problem.  For me.

So that's an issue.  It made my husband and I uncomfortable to be handed this information.  We felt...monitored. We are already both completely anxious about the possibility of this baby dying too.  We don't want our birth "stolen" from us again. 

But, none of that is why my brain is melting. 

No.  My brain is melting for another reason all together. 

My brain is melting because....

Our midwife did an ultrasound.  And.....(drum roll please!!)

We

are

having

a



......................G   I   R   L  !!!!!!!!!!!


Every part of my being is in total SHOCK.

A girl?  Are you sure?  How?  What?  OH MY GOD!!!!

I have given birth to 7 boys.  5 of whom are alive.   I have spent my life protecting my sons from the assumptions that our culture has about boys.  I have spent my life joyfully nurturing the gentle tenderness that is a little boy.  And now.....

A girl.

A girl who has a different set of assumptions already ahead.  "Girls are hard"  "Girls are manipulative"  "Girls are emotional"  "Girls are a problem as teens"  "Girls are catty"  "Girls are more expensive"  "Girls are : fill in the blank." 

I am having a daughter.  Unless life steals her from me.  I am having a daughter.  A young woman who will grow and blossom with 5 living older brothers to keep her in line. 

The myths about boys have not been true for my sons. 

I don't believe they will be true for my daughter either.  I have a new mission.  To protect her from our cultural assumptions of what a girl "is". 

But...for now...my brain is melting. 
With Joy!

A Sunny Day...A Sunny Feeling.

It's lovely out.  Big blue Montana sky.  The color of a robins egg.  I can hear my boys on the trampoline...a sure sign that the weather is good and the snow has dissipated enough to let them jump.  I can hear the dogs wrestling outside happily.  I even hear birds....I can hear ALL of this, because my windows are open!!  Spring.  I love Spring.

I am particularly chipper this morning.  Unusually so.

There is something about feeling my baby move inside that brightens my heart.

It seemed like it would never happen.  In all my years of mothering, I have to say I've never had to wait so long before feeling my babies move.  But...he or she is in there.  And, today, I feel that without doubt.  It was about 3 minutes of blissful movement in the wee hours of morning, when I was debating on whether I really wanted to wake up or not.  The movement decided.  I was awake....but....blissfully still.  Just feeling.  Life.

I have a midwife appointment today.  The first one I've been happy about.  I know there is life inside.  I know she'll hear a heart beat.  I know....because....I felt it.  Only hours ago.

I'm greedy for it though.  It was this morning...and now it's 2:00.  I can't wait to feel that little person again.  I literally can't wait.

Today is a happy day.  I struggle daily to find positivity.  I am not always successful.  Let's be honest.  I am usually only successful for moments at a time.  If I'm lucky.

But...I've been happy all day.  Beautiful weather indicates I will soon be able to turn my garden.  Or....again, let's be honest....have my sons and husband turn my garden.  heh heh.  My fuzzi bunz cloth diapers arrived.  The woman included a teddy bear that has "my first bear" monogrammed on the tummy, and a lovely blanket of cream and taupe.  A blanket to wrap my baby in.  MY baby.  Who WILL be coming home!!!!  (notice the emphatic demand?)  And....beautiful movement.  From my Happy Jack (or Venus).  (notice the assumption that a woman who has had 7 sons, 5 of whom are living beautifully, assumes she will have another son.)

It is a beautiful day...and I will walk down the hill a few miles to my midwifes birth center around 5:00.

It is a beautiful day...and I want to keep it that way.

Beggers can't be choosers....but....my nerves are really enjoying a little break from the pain of fear, loss, and grief.

Hoping you are all having beautiful moments where you are as well.  It helps to know these moments can exist after the blackness.

Feeling Rather Blue for Some Reason...

Well...maybe blue isn't the right color. How about gray?

I know I should be happy. My baby is alive.

I know I should be grateful. My baby is alive.

I know I should be calm. My baby is alive.

I know I shouldn't worry. My baby is alive.

My baby is alive.

Right now.

As far as I know.

If you can't handle the idea that babies sometimes don't make it home...spare yourself...don't read any more. I'm sorry...I just needed to vent my...whatever it is.

I remember a person who believed in birth. A woman who believed in the natural, living, process of birth. A strong woman, who even taught other women, that they could do it. And I BELIEVED it. With all my heart. Yes...I was always cautious in the first trimester. I'd had miscarriages...so I knew that phase was...untrustworthy. I knew not all babies were viable in the first trimester. Viable...isn't that a nice, neat, scientific word???

But then...I lost Simon and Alexander. Stillbirth. So unexpected. So....pointless. Nothing wrong...just loss. Something that was from memoirs of our great grandmothers. Something that happened in third world countries. Not to my sisters. Not to me.

Suddenly, all the "it was meant to be's" of early miscarriage were....wrong.

There was nothing wrong with them. They just died. And left me here on earth without them to find my way through loss without reason.

I'm pregnant. And nothing is wrong. I should be laughing with ecstatic joy!!! Sometimes I do...

But this evening, I have a lump in my throat. And I'm having a hard time meditating that lump away. I'm having a hard time distracting myself from the fact that I never know from one appointment to the next what is going on inside of me...because I still can't FEEL any movement. It's driving me crazy. I can't feel him or her. I look pregnant. MIGHTY pregnant. I look about 6 or 7 months of pregnant though I'm 17 weeks, into the second trimester with a rainbow star baby who is, supposedly, the size of a turnip...but I can't feel anything. I can't even hear anything with my feta-scope. So, I have another official appointment on Wednesday, and I've been in EVERY week this month (for unofficial panic visits) ...just to hear it again. Just to check. Just to make sure....

I won a baby sling today. A beautiful designer sewfunky baby sling. Check out their site...these slings are truly lovely.
And I won.
I want to believe I won because I have a rainbow baby on the way that will NEED it. I want to believe in this baby. I want this baby with all my being. For me. For my husband. For our sons. For the healing he or she will bring. For the love she or he will add to our lives. I've been lovingly told that it's good luck to buy things for your rainbow baby. 

I don't want any more loss.

I want to push it out of my mind and be the happy, confident person I used to be. I want a person like I used to be to hold me and tell me that I don't have to worry...because birth works. Most of the time.

MOST of the time. MOST of the time everything is perfectly fine.

I want it to be perfectly fine again and I want to forget that it has ever been otherwise.
I want innocence. Confidence. Hope. Joy. Expectation. The ability to plan and nest and be HAPPY. The ability to feel lucky and truly blessed!!

I just want to be happy. Really, truly happy. The kind of happy I used to be.

This baby deserves a happy mama. My family deserves a happy mama.

I wish I could win an unbroken heart in a contest. Boy...that would be a gift.
A miracle.

Hey...mama's who have been in this place....how did you cope?  How did you make it through all the worry and fear and....tears?  How did you do this?  I wish I knew HOW...but this is really new for me.  I don't know the answers.  For anyone who knows me, I am not someone who likes not knowing the answers.  Please help me.  I need some coping skills that I don't seem to possess.  How did you do it?  How did you believe again? 

Testing the Fates...

I just won on a bid I placed on E-bay.  I just won on a bid.  I know that doesn't sound like a big deal...but...

It is.

It is a really big deal.  For me.

It's a big deal because...well...it was for a brand new lot of 24 all in one, one size fits 0 to 3 years, cream colored Fuzzi Bunz diapers.  For $305.  Over $100 less than it would cost to buy 24 of this type of  diaper...

Now, in my fantasy, I would have gotten to pick a rainbow assortment of diapers.  I had budgeted for 18 of this diaper...and that was pushing it a bit.  But, when I saw the lot of 24 new ones, I had to admit that it could be a real bargain, even if they were "cream" instead of rainbow.  So...I bid.

Honestly...it's not that it's a big deal when you really think of it....but...it IS a big deal to me because...because I know that I might have just wasted my families money.  $305 dollars is a lot for us.  Especially if there is no baby in the end. 

I emailed the seller...because I was curious about why she would be selling so many brand new amazing all in one fuzzi bunz (can you tell I loooove these diapers?)  I emailed her because I wondered why she had never used them.  I wondered if she had lost her baby too.  It turned out that her mother had bought them, but that she preferred the idea of disposables because they did not have a washing machine.  The mom had thought 24 would be enough without a washing machine, but the new mom wasn't "into it".  I wish I had a mom that wanted to buy me diapers. But...that's another tale.
Anyway...
I drooled over this type of diaper when pregnant with Simon and Alexander...that was when my sweet man was unemployed, and there was no way in hell I would be able to have even one of them. I already had dozens of pre-folds and tons of diaper covers...lovely cottony ones.

And then...they died.  I got rid of every other cloth diapering thing I had.  I got rid of the co-sleeper.  I got rid of ALL the baby items.  ALL of them.  Except one little outfit.  The one I'd intended for my baby before I knew I had twins nestled within me.  One little cream and brown striped outfit that had been lovingly picked.  I couldn't bear to part with it.  But everything else.....everything....my slings, my nursing pads....everything...went.  Gone.  Given away.  I could have sold it all.  But....I didn't have the oomph to do it.  So I gave it all away.  And now...I'm trying to find the courage to replace it all.

It's expensive to replace it all.

And part of me...the scared part...wanted to wait until I had a live beautiful baby in my arms.  Part of me...the anxious part...wanted to know everything was perfect to prevent wasting a penny of my families precious resources.  Part of me....doesn't believe it will turn out o.k...

In trying to combat that very negative fearful person...I told my husband that I wanted to bid on these diapers.  They really seemed like a great deal.  I started my bid at $125.  A few moments ago...I saw the price climbing...and climbing.  It really WAS a great deal....even after watching it climb, I knew how much 24 of this particular diaper cost.

Suddenly...letting the diapers go to someone else almost felt like giving up on this baby.

And...I COULD NOT LET MYSELF!!!

I bid again.  And again.  Knowing that my limit was $10 below cost.  Even though that was silly...because I could have had all the colors I drool over at that price.  I bid in the last 32 seconds...and watched it tick away and wondered if someone else would bid higher.  31. 30. 29. I bit my lip so hard it bled.  19. 18. 17. 16. I started to feel my throat close up.  9. 8. 6. I started to cry.  5. 4. 3. 2. 1. 0.

"You are the highest bidder at $305."

I sobbed.

I won.  I saved over $100 dollars.  $140 to be exact.  For 24 cream colored, never before used, soft, fuzzy, all in one, one size fits 0-3, snappy set, beautiful fuzzi bunz diapers.  All mine.  Every single one of them.  Mine. For my baby.  For my rainbow baby.  My star child.

And then, the panic set in.  What if.....what if I get them....and it's all for nothing.

And, it wasn't about the money.  It was about more loss.  And I cried some more.  I was so grateful my kids were taking turns on the Wii fit; it helped to give me space to have a panic attack.

I just won 24 perfect diapers.  For a perfect baby who I want more than anything. 

The diapers will come.  They are guaranteed to arrive within a week.  I will have those diapers, of that I can be sure.  The baby however....the baby is not guaranteed to arrive.  And I have to live with that truth.  There is nothing I can do about it.  Except continue forward as if I am not afraid, because this baby deserves to have a mom who is excited to nest...who has high hopes...who has prepared for his or her arrival with all the joy I had with all my babies.  Including Simon and Alexander.

I hope that other mama's will donate clothes, a co-sleeper, a car seat....and everything else I will need.  Because I just spent it all on diapers.

And...it was something I had to do no matter how silly it seems.  Because...though it feels like testing the fates....It mattered to me.  It is empowering to me.  I needed to be able to do something like that...for my star baby.

And now....I wait.